


Some Girls

by Rave



Series: Some Girls [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, Genderswap, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-21 00:02:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rave/pseuds/Rave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I did some research,” Liam says, busily pulling up Safari. His voice sounds masterfully, miraculously steady in his own ears. “I think probably the best thing to do is like, get to know yourself. Um. And your, like. New equipment."</p><p>Zayn wakes up a girl. Liam tries to be helpful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Girls

**Author's Note:**

> I THINK WE ALL KNOW WHY THIS HAPPENED. _VERONICA._
> 
> thanks to everyone on [tumblr](http://sashayed.tumblr.com) who tolerated my complete meltdown during these last three days, the longest year of my life. Also, while zayn makes a GORGEOUS girl!zayn all by himself and doesn't need any assistance, I will just say that [Shay Mitchell](http://25.media.tumblr.com/39d24e8b4d038fb9fcb49e6e4f2331a5/tumblr_mqay2rMZLn1sbq17ro1_500.png) is the [beautiful](http://media.tumblr.com/67a8302783d6d39a29bf9316d22b1a62/tumblr_inline_mqbqemdvC91qz4rgp.jpg) [cisgirl Zayn](http://24.media.tumblr.com/0f064d52b44e2043b7753480c91cc609/tumblr_mqb87dUvh71s85t1go1_500.jpg) [of my heart,](http://media.tumblr.com/bea31dce3c3aa2e81b2c4ba6900b55dd/tumblr_inline_mqbqdy1JUH1qz4rgp.png) in case you needed one. Also,
> 
>  
> 
> Okay. cool. here we go.

 

 

 

“Why aren’t you asking Harry?” is what Liam says. 

Zayn’s cheeks are flushed, arms crossed defensively. “Just -- no reason. Cos I’m asking you.”

Liam swallows, tries again. “It’s just -- I feel like Harry would know better than I do. Like, I mean. He’s _Harry._ ”

“Well, if you don’t want to help, I _will_ ask Harry,” Zayn snaps. Her too-big t-shirt is Liam’s t-shirt, and her legs are brown and slim and smooth underneath. 

_His_ legs. Zayn’s still Zayn. It’s important to remember that. Liam swallows hard.

“You want me to -- “ He clears his throat, like that helps anything. “You want -- um.”

Zayn closes his eyes as if in pain. “I don’t know how to get off,” he says again, slowly, tiredly, like he’s explaining to an idiot. Which clearly he is. “I don’t know how to --” He gestures crudely at his own crotch, mouth twisting up. “I want you to, like, teach me.”

Liam’s throat goes dry. Zayn’s going on, “I need directions or something. I thought I was all right at it, but it turns out I’m rubbish.”

“You’re not rubbish,” Liam says hearteningly, slipping with relief back into pep talk mode, good old reliable Liam, not having any surreal sex conversations with his currently-female bandmates whatsoever, at all. “Women’s bodies are all different, and um, people like different -- things, and just because you’re still getting used to this one doesn’t mean --”

“Liam,” Zayn says. His voice is lighter than it used to be, but it’s still low and smoky and kind of dopey-sounding, fond around Liam’s name. “If you don’t want to, just say so.” 

“It’s not that,” Liam says. He feels like maybe he’s doing something weird with his body, sitting in a weird position. He tries to sit more normally, but he’s not really sure how to because he’s not sure what it is he’s doing that’s weird. He squeezes his hands between his knees so he can’t do something weird with them, too. “I don’t -- couldn't you talk to Perrie about it?”

As soon as it’s out of his mouth Zayn’s face goes hard and hurt, and Liam realizes with a swoop of embarrassment what a stupid, mean thing it is to say. Zayn hasn’t spoken to Perrie in a couple of weeks. They all know that. She was weirded out, Zayn had told them, the tattoo and everything, no matter how much he explained that it was just _symbolic,_ and they’d been in a rough place anyway. So no, of course Zayn can’t talk to Perrie about this. Liam was absolutely not trying to be an asshole; his brain’s just garbage right now. “No, wait, I didn’t --”

“Whatever,” Zayn says, cheeks flaming, and stalks out of the room. The narrow back, the knobby spine held straight, the thin t-shirt hiding the new curves of his hips: from the back Liam still knows him completely. 

 

It’s not that Liam doesn’t want to. He does. He _really_ does. He has, if he’s being honest, since that stupid day they put stupid Zayn in a stupid wig and gave him tits. 

When Zayn-as-Veronica had first sauntered in they’d all been floored, not just Liam. Niall breathed, “ _Lord_ amercy,” and Harry said fondly, “How’d a big nerd like me ever catch a girl like you?” as he slipped a long arm around Zayn’s waist. “We’re all going to have some very weird dreams about this,” Louis had said with certainty. Liam had let out a low wolf-whistle, grinning at Zayn. Zayn grinned back. 

“You look hot,” Liam had said sincerely.

“I know, right?” Zayn said, doing a little twirl.

So it wasn’t actually then that it became a problem. It was later in the day, when Liam had wandered, bored, into the dressing room and found Zayn there alone. His hair was tied back with a knotted scarf like a French actress or something, and he was leaning over the counter to hook in an earring. His lips were parted slightly in concentration. The blue shirt was unbuttoned low and Liam could see the deep shadow of cleavage beneath, where the thin gold necklace fell. Zayn’s skin was smooth and golden in the wash of lights from the mirror, and his eyes were luminous under their long black lashes, and his hands were so careful on the delicate bend of wire. 

Liam’s knees went suddenly weak. He tried to lean casually on a table to support himself, missed the table by about a foot and toppled sideways, knocking over a giant plastic tub of lipsticks. 

At the crash Zayn had glanced up in surprise and turned: when he saw it was Liam, a smile curved his glossy pink mouth. 

“Creeper,” he’d said, and Liam could have sworn there was a self-satisfied purr under his voice, that his smoky eyes lingered on Liam’s face an instant too long. 

It’s been weird in Liam’s head ever since. Louis was right: they’ve all had some very peculiar dreams, which everyone else seems happy to talk about loudly until Zayn blushes and swats them away -- but Liam seems to be the only one to have picked up the full, like, subscription package. 

There’s the one where they’re at a picnic and Zayn’s wearing a yellow sundress, crossing her legs toward Liam so only he can see the white flash of her panties, smiling through her lashes just at him. The one where they’re at Harry’s stepdad’s bungalow and Zayn is lounging by the pool in a red bikini and heart-shaped sunglasses, sucking on an ice lolly. The one where they’re camping and Zayn crawls into his sleeping bag totally naked, her flesh chilly against his own. The one, humiliatingly, where he’s got Zayn pinned against the balustrade of a balcony, overlooking some gorgeous moonlit ocean, and he’s slowly unlacing each tiny hook from the back of her white gown, pushing her hair aside with a gold-ringed left hand to kiss her neck. 

And then, a few days ago, a late rainy night somewhere between Newark and Chicago, Zayn had woken them all up yelling in the bus bathroom. He wouldn’t let anyone in except, finally, Harry, who must have talked him off a ledge, because after what seemed like hours they filed out together, Harry looking pale under his Miami tan and holding up one hand in warning, and then, behind him, Zayn. Wild-eyed, shaking, hissing “Fucking laugh and I swear to God I’ll murder you” -- and definitely, unmistakeably a girl.

Liam is still pretty sure it’s his fault. He doesn’t know how. Just, like, he was having all these bad thoughts all the time, and now Zayn’s in this nightmare, and it just seems like there has to be a connection.

So it’s not that he doesn’t want to help Zayn out. It’s just that he’s not sure he can just help out and then back off. He can’t really be cool about it, or clinical. If he starts touching Zayn, he’s not sure how he’s going to make himself stop.

 

They’re lounging on the couch in Louis’s suite, eating minibar peanuts and watching Niall kill zombies on the XBox. There’s not much else they _can_ do. They were lucky there were only two more road shows, because tour’s been postponed indefinitely. Illness, somehow both non-serious and incapacitating, is the current storyline, but there are already rumors that Zayn is dead, which, Louis says comfortingly, makes him “basically the next Paul McCartney.” No one is allowed on Twitter. Paul’s been trying to get them back to London, but it’s been constant thunderstorms, and they can’t, for obvious reasons, go to the airport unless they’re definitely, absolutely going to be able to fly out at once.

It’s not so bad really. Just spending a stormy day holed up in a nice set of suites with his best friends; under other circumstances Liam might do this on purpose. Under circumstances that didn’t involve, like. This particular torture.

Zayn hasn’t spoken to Liam since this morning. He’s tucked between Harry and Louis in trackies and a soft ivory-colored sweater with a wide neck, which might have originally belonged to Louis but who even knows at this point. It keeps sliding off Zayn’s bare brown shoulder, and every time he tugs it back up Liam’s brain registers the delicacy of his wrists and hands, the barely-discernible slope of his breasts under the folds of creamy wool. Liam knows he’s staring, drags his glance back to the TV, but his eyes keep drifting back. He can’t help it. 

Harry is absently stroking Zayn’s hair, which is looped back in a sloppy, impossibly sexy knot at the nape of Zayn’s neck, stray wisps falling loose down to his collarbones. Zayn tried cutting it with kitchen scissors, that first day, but it grew back almost at once. 

Why _didn’t_ Zayn go to Harry? Liam probably would have, in Zayn's position. It’s not a secret that Harry and Zayn have hooked up a couple of times when they’re horny or bored, somehow managing to keep it from ever being weird. And Harry loves getting girls off; he has whole sets of porn about it, just women coming. Louis doesn’t particularly love it, but he does know _how_ , and he wouldn’t get weird either. Hell, Niall once made a girl come so hard she pulled a muscle in her groin and Paul had to drive them both to the hospital with a non-disclosure agreement. Niall’s such a mate, so laid-back and cheerful, there’s no way he would say no to Zayn if he asked. 

Harry’s hand is big and possessive under the collar of Zayn’s sweater now. Liam still remembers how they were in that video, joking around but with an edge that wasn't a joke at all, Harry's eyes lidded with fascination, his grin predatory as Zayn flirted and danced and tossed his hair. The way they'd circled each other.

Liam has a sudden vivid flash of Zayn riding Harry’s face, Harry’s chin shining and his hair mussed and his lips swollen up. Zayn’s face gone slack and blissful, lashes fluttering against his smooth cheekbones.

“Eat shit,” Niall says to the zombies, and the _taka-taka-taka_ of machine gunnery sounds not unlike Liam’s stupid heart. 

 

He knocks on Zayn’s door that night, and the wait for Zayn to open it feels hours long. Zayn’s still in that sweater, wearing his glasses, Kindle in one hand and a toothbrush in his mouth. He raises his eyebrows at Liam, then kicks the door open to let him in and turns back, still brushing his teeth. The sweater falls down past his ass, but it’s loose around the neck so Liam can see the sparrow tattoo and the wet, shining hairs fallen loose from their clip at the nape of Zayn’s neck. Zayn’s hips swing unconsciously beneath it as he walks back into the room: lower center of gravity, Harry had explained sagely. Liam can’t tell if he’s wearing shorts beneath the sweater, or if he’s wearing anything.

Liam hates that sweater. He thinks he probably liked it on Louis, or Niall, or whoever owned it before, but he hates it now. He clutches his messenger bag, sinks down on the bed.

He hears Zayn spit into the sink, then the swish of water. “So what’s up?” he calls from the bathroom.

“Um,” Liam says. “I was thinking about -- what you said earlier. And I'm sorry, by the way. I was just surprised.”

A deliberate, careful pause. Then Zayn pokes his head out of the bathroom. “Yeah?” 

The bathroom light is soft on his face, and Liam has to catch his breath for a second. Zayn-as-a-girl is different from Zayn-in-a-wig: somehow both softer and sharper, all points and curves where Zayn was squared, boyish angles. His eyes seem even bigger than they were before, his mouth pinker, his cheekbones rounder. He’d showed them all his breasts that first night, hauling up his vest to ask in a terrified rush if he was hallucinating or if he’d really got _tits_ , and Liam hadn’t been able to answer because they were so small and perfect, buttery-gold and flushed, tipped up like little scoops, what Andy would have called a _mouthful_. He can’t see them now but he can still imagine them (vividly, constantly), and it makes it hard to be normal.

“Yeah,” Liam says after a second. He pats the bed. Zayn hesitates for a second before padding cautiously over, keeping a good foot between them on the mattress. His skin’s still wet from the shower. He smells like he always does after washing up, the same steam and musk, the woody floral shampoo Zayn’s always used, but with some elusive, intoxicating difference, as if altered by the new chemistry of his body.

Liam reaches into his bag, pulls out his plastic shopping bag and his iPad. Zayn’s brow creases.

“So I did some research,” Liam says, busily pulling up Safari. His voice sounds masterfully, miraculously steady in his own ears. “I think probably the best thing to do is like, get to know yourself. Um. And your, like. New equipment. I looked up how women, um, teach themselves, and what I read was, first, like, for women, sometimes you have to set the mood, because it’s sort of in your head, like. Or it can be. Not for all women, because everyone’s different, obviously, but if you’re having trouble, it’s worth a try, right?” He dumps the candles, nicked from the hotel restaurant, onto the sheets. “So I got you these and you can like, set them up around the bathtub or wherever. Or put on music, you know, like. Whatever makes you feel sexy. And then you get a mirror --” He pulls out the compact he bought from the downstairs commissary, brandishes it maniacally like a game show presenter, “and you like, just sort of get on the bed, or in the tub or wherever, and you put the mirror down there, you know, between your legs, where you can see, and you like, compare it to -- something like this.” He turns the iPad towards Zayn, the clinical diagram with its color-coded labels. “So like, you can see where everything is, and then you, um.” 

“I know where the clitoris is,” Zayn says.

“Right!” Liam says blankly. “Well. Good. So then, once you -- familiarize yourself, you just have to maybe experiment for a while and figure out what you like. Whether it’s, um. Sort of, the webpage said, soft circles at first, like, light pressure, and then --”

“Yeah,” Zayn interrupts him. He sounds muffled. Liam looks up to see that his face is buried in his hands, wet hair falling around his wrists. “All right. Got it.”

“There’s some other websites on here in the tabs,” Liam offers, more than a little hysterically. “The first one said a lot of women watch porn, but I couldn’t find any that was like, for women, really, and I didn’t know if you’d be into different stuff than before, you probably are, it’s hormonal, innit, and you’ve got lady hormones now, probably, maybe, at least for the moment, so anyway I just pulled up the ones the website said were good and not degrading, but I haven’t actually watched them so I don’t know --”

“Okay,” Zayn says abruptly, raising his head. His cheeks are flaming. He grabs the iPad and drags it out of Liam’s loose grip. “Great. Thanks. Thanks for your help. I need you to go.” 

“Right!” Liam says, bouncing to his feet. He’s a crazy person. He needs help. “Of course. Great. I’ll just -- I’ll let you, um.” He pauses for a second at the door, then adds, almost against his will, “I’m sorry I couldn’t get you a vibrator, or something like that, but um, there wasn’t really --”

“Bye, goodnight, please leave,” Zayn says loudly. Liam goes. 

 

He barely sleeps that night: he keeps jolting awake to flashes of Zayn. In his late-night hallucinatory haze Zayn’s just a girl, and it's not complicated. A girl he wants badly, a girl he loves, a girl spread out like a porn star alone on her big hotel bed, rubbing her own breasts, fingering herself, her pink mouth open and her brow creasing up in pleasure. A girl breathing his name, saying, _Teach me._

The whole thing’s so dumb and horrible. He drags himself out of bed, finally, when it’s undeniably light out and clear it’s not going to get any better, and goes for a stiff, perfunctory run on the en-suite treadmill, because he’s not going to jerk off to this, he is _not._

Afterwards he stands shoulders bowed under the cold shower in penance, gritting his teeth until his hard-on finally goes down.

 

So he’s already in kind of a mood when he goes into the shared kitchen for breakfast. He’s not even in spirits to make a protein shake or anything; there’s no point, he barely worked out. He pours himself some cereal instead and slumps moodily next to Harry. Harry’s reading an old issue of _Self_ that he found in the lobby, and he aims a fist at Liam’s crotch without looking up. Liam swats him back. 

“Hey,” says a smoky voice from the door. It’s Zayn, because of course it is, and he’s wearing Liam’s t-shirt again, because of course he is. Why is he even awake, Liam wonders resentfully. 

Zayn doesn’t look at Liam as he comes in. “Harry, can I talk to you about something?"

“Yeah, love, what’s up?” Harry says. He catches Zayn easily at the waist and tugs him onto his lap. Zayn’s foot kicks out for balance as he folds instinctively into Harry’s chest. He’s wearing white athletic socks shoved low on his calves, the soles gray with dust, and at the sight of them -- loose around his trim ankles -- Liam wants to throw up or bark like a dog. His eyes meet Zayn’s for an instant, helpless. The look in them floods Liam's whole body with bright heat, like a lightning rod. 

Liam rips his gaze away and stares down into his cereal. He’s the worst. 

“Um,” Zayn says, slowly. His tapered fingers are tight on the collar of Harry’s stupid plaid shirt. “It’s sort of -- private. Can we, like --”

“Course,” Harry says at once, like it’s _nothing_ , and sets Zayn back on his feet, patting his bum genially. “My suite, or --”

“Um, _no,_ ” Liam says, without even meaning to, and then he realizes he’s actually also jumped to his feet, dropping his spoon into his cereal bowl. Harry raises both eyebrows at him, mildly surprised. Zayn’s face is still turned into Harry’s neck.

Liam’s a head case and a bad friend. He knows that now, and it’s too late, so he barrels doggedly on: “I, uh -- before you -- um, before you -- do that, can I, like, just borrow Zayn for a sec? Because, Zayn, can I just right quick talk to you about the thing, from before? The thing we were discussing?”

“I thought we’d finished discussing that,” Zayn says, to the floor.

“We haven’t,” Liam says with all the firmness he can muster, and Zayn finally looks at him. 

“Oh,” he says after a second. “All right.”

“Back in a tick, Harry,” Liam says, and Harry says, “Yep, sure you will,” picking up his magazine again, but Liam doesn’t even care. His whole body’s strung too tight, every muscle taut and heated. 

They don’t speak all the way down the hall. He holds the door to his room open for Zayn, steps in after him.

“So,” Zayn says, turning, “got some more anatomical diagrams for me? Done any helpful Googling?” He sounds snide but Liam thinks there’s nervousness under there, and the thing is he just _likes_ Zayn so much, even when Zayn’s being a pain in the ass, even when Zayn’s driving him absolutely insane. 

“All right, that's enough,” Liam says, low, and backs Zayn into the wall. Zayn’s shoulders hit the full length mirror, rattling it.

“What’s --” Zayn starts, but Liam pins him to the wall by the hips and Zayn’s lips part and his head falls back, baring the smooth column of his throat, and so that’s the first part of Zayn that Liam's going to get to kiss. He pulls Zayn tight to him so he can feel the warm line of Zayn’s body all the way down, and then he does it: kisses Zayn's neck, then his shoulder, sucking a bright flush into that flawless skin. Zayn’s cologne is the same but now it’s heady and female, all cedar and jasmine -- _Gucci By Gucci,_ Liam thinks sort of hysterically -- and his pulse is wild against Liam’s mouth.

“Oh,” Zayn says, almost whimpers. His fingers drag down Liam’s scalp, leaving trails of bright sensation.

“You were seriously going to ask Harry for this?” Liam asks, pained. “Right in front of me?” He kisses behind Zayn’s ear, trails his lips down that smooth, sharp jaw.

“Thought you were -- off the table,” Zayn says. His breath is coming in hard little pants, but he’s still going for bravado, and Liam really, really loves him, because he’s so stupid. “I was going to -- ahh...ask Harry to show me how to get off. Is that what we’re d -- doing?”

“Eventually,” Liam says, nudging his knee between Zayn’s thighs. Zayn’s legs fall open so easily, so sweetly: Liam leans in before he can retort and kisses Zayn’s lovely frowning mouth for the first time.

The kiss is dizzying, long and deep and sweet, and Zayn is warm in his arms, yielding, perfect. They’re both panting when Liam breaks it. He pulls back just enough that his lips brush the tip of Zayn’s nose. 

“Lesson one,” he says into Zayn’s skin, like a secret. “Some girls have to be warmed up.”

Zayn makes an annoyed sound and kisses him back fiercely, mouth feverish and wet. There’s a bitter undertaste, the burnt-ash of cigarette smoke, and Liam should find it disgusting but he so completely doesn’t. Zayn’s soft curves are arched up against Liam’s body and his nipples are so hard they’re pricking Liam’s chest through two layers of clothes. Liam smooths his hands under the oversized t-shirt, up Zayn’s sides and then back down, over the swell of his belly and the flare of his hips. 

Liam winds an arm around the hot skin of Zayn’s waist and gets the other hand in his hair, fingers wound tight in the thick silk just at the base of Zayn’s skull. He tugs Zayn’s head back as he kisses him again, and Zayn gasps sharp and shuddery into Liam’s mouth.

“Lesson two,” Liam says, on slightly surer ground, “some girls like their hair pulled a little when they’re being kissed,” twisting his grip to emphasize the point. Zayn makes that small gorgeous sound again, grinding down on Liam’s thigh. “You do, for example.”

“Oh,” Zayn says again, and it’s a girl’s voice, with a girl’s dreamy wonder in it. Her hips roll helplessly up the line of Liam’s leg, and Liam can feel the heat of her cunt already. Except it’s Zayn, Zayn’s cunt, Zayn touching him and kissing him and desperate for him. “I -- knew that one.”

“Great, guess you don’t need me then,” Liam says, and slides his tongue deeper into Zayn’s mouth. He traces his other hand around Zayn’s waist, up the smooth skin of his ribs, goosebumps rising sweetly under the path of his touch until his thumb’s just skimming the under-curve of Zayn’s breast. Zayn’s still got his hands on both sides of Liam’s face, kissing him like he’s drowning. Liam rings one of Zayn’s wrists and pulls it gently down, guiding it under the t-shirt. 

Zayn gets it at once: he splays his hand over his own breast, squeezing his nipple between two fingers. Liam covers Zayn’s hand with his own, and Zayn’s hand isn’t that much smaller than his but it’s more delicate, the fingers thinner, and Liam can feel the soft fullness of flesh between their fingers and the shocking, lovely pebble of Zayn’s nipple and the thrum of his heart.

“Lesson three,” he says against Zayn’s wet lower lip, “some girls like touching themselves here first,” and rolls Zayn’s breast in his hand, cupping the weight of it, letting Zayn’s hand tighten under his. Zayn moans, deep in his throat, and shifts up into him. 

“You’re teasing,” Zayn grits out.

“Some girls like being teased,” Liam points out. He kisses Zayn again, all teeth and tongue: he’s so hard, knows Zayn can feel it against his leg. He reaches down to cup Zayn’s pussy over the boxers he’s wearing. Zayn’s glowing with damp heat, cunt pulsing through the thin material. Liam groans, he can’t help it.

“ _You_ do,” he breathes. “You like that.”

“Please,” Zayn says, a low whine.

Liam presses the heel of his hand harder against him, feels the moisture soaking out of Zayn, can almost smell the musk of it. “You’re so wet for it, babe,” he murmurs in amazement, nosing at Zayn’s jaw. “Fuck. You gorgeous little slut, you’re unbelievable. You’re _dripping_ for me.”

Zayn stiffens in every muscle and Liam does too. He pulls back quickly. 

“Is that -- is that okay,” he asks nervously. “Was that too much, um, calling you -- I don’t mean -- ”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Zayn says, thunking his head back against the mirror. He’s insanely beautiful. His lips are smudged red, swollen from being kissed, and his cheeks are aflame, and his eyes are wide and shadowed by the thick fringe of his lashes. “Yes, fuck, are you kidding? That was like, _unbelievably_ sexy and then you had to go and --”

“Okay, um, shut up,” Liam says, crowding him back again and pinning his wrists to the glass, feeling himself blush. “I just want to be really clear, I want you to know I love you. Like, it’s just, I fucking love you.”

Zayn’s silent for an excruciating second, and then he says, “I love you, too.” His voice is quiet.

“And anything I say or do that you don’t like,” Liam says, “you have to promise to say.” He kisses the soft juncture of Zayn’s neck and shoulder, because he’s figured out Zayn likes that, and Zayn shivers gratifyingly, chin tilting up, and his hips tilt.

“Okay,” he says.

“Promise.”

“I promise.”

“Good,” Liam says, nipping at Zayn’s skin, “because I’m going to do things now.”

“Fantastic,” Zayn says faintly. His fingers are fisted tight in the back of Liam’s shirt. “Can’t wait.”

Liam scoops him up easily, one hand under Zayn’s ass and the other still threaded into his hair. Zayn’s thighs tighten around his waist, arms dropping over Liam’s shoulders and his hair falling around them both in a dark, fragrant curtain. Liam squeezes the flesh at the curve of Zayn’s ass: Zayn’s still skinny as anything but as a girl his thighs are a little juicy, soft, fitting perfectly in Liam’s grip. And there’s something --

“Did you shave your legs?” Liam asks, running his hand curiously down Zayn’s lean, smooth thigh, almost biting through his tongue at the thought. Zayn shudders, head dropping to Liam’s shoulder. 

“Yeah,” he says softly. “When I was trying to, um. For myself. I thought maybe that was the problem, like, looking down and seeing --”

Liam pulls Zayn’s face to his and cuts him off with a kiss, putting everything into it that he can, all the heat and force and comfort. He cradles the side of Zayn’s face as he pulls back, thumbing Zayn’s sharp cheekbone.

“You’re so beautiful,” Liam tells him, holding Zayn still so he can’t look away. Those big dark eyes search his for a second. “You were before, too. You always are.”

Zayn’s lashes flutter for an instant against his fingertips. Then he turns his face into Liam’s palm and kisses it, soft and warm and adoring, and Liam feels like he’s going to float into space.

“Is that lesson four?” Zayn asks after a second. “Compliments?”

“Are we only on four lessons?” Liam says. “That’s awful. I’m such a slow teacher. Yeah, sure, why not. Some girls like compliments, but only if you mean them.” He catches Zayn’s lower lip between his teeth for a second, and then Zayn winds his arms tighter around his neck and deepens it to a real kiss.

“Would you still want to kiss me if I had really hairy legs?” Zayn asks, eyes slanting sideways to Liam’s, the playful gleam back.

“Yes,” Liam says instantly. He tucks a fallen strand of hair behind Zayn’s ear and strokes the smooth curve of his jaw again. “I’d want to kiss you if you had -- if you had a giraffe head.”

Zayn starts to laugh, eyelids curving up, and Liam feels the vibration of it in his ribs. “That’s messed up,” he says, but he’s smiling so huge, his tongue peeking out a little.

“Giraffe head,” Liam says again, kissing the scrunched-up tip of Zayn’s nose. “Whoops, get ready,” and he turns them together and tips Zayn down to the mattress, keeping a hand carefully behind Zayn’s skull so his head won’t bounce. Zayn’s arms fall back over his head. His eyes stay on Liam, hot and half-lidded.

“Get your top off, sweetheart,” Liam says softly. Zayn makes a noise in his throat, and then he’s crossing his arms over his head, wriggling out of the shirt. Liam watches hungrily, squeezing himself through his jeans to take the edge off. 

Zayn pulls the hem over his head and his dark liquid-shine hair spills out onto the pillow. Through the window the soft gray morning light is freckled with the shadows of raindrops, and wherever it touches Zayn's skin he seems to glow: his lovely face, his throat and shoulders, the shallow inward cradle of his hips, the velvet curve of his belly and the soft swell of his breasts. He’s laid out on the sheets like a feast and it makes Liam’s mouth water just to look at him.

“Zayn,” he says quietly.

Zayn doesn’t say anything. He hooks his thumbs into his boxers and starts to pull them down, but Liam falls over him before he can, pulling his wrists away. Zayn lifts his eyebrows, inquiring, and Liam kisses him again, harder, until Zayn’s panting under him, chest heaving, heartbeat wild. 

“I wasn’t lying before,” Liam says, and nuzzles into Zayn’s neck. “When I said you were a gorgeous little slut for me. That’s exactly what you are, isn’t it, love?”

“Y-eah,” Zayn says, almost a whisper. The word sounds like it gets stuck halfway out of his mouth. 

“Spread those thighs for me, then,” Liam says, and Zayn just does it without a second’s hesitation, eyes never moving from Liam’s face. Liam jolts with heat for a second, dick jumping where it’s trapped in his jeans. He has to close his eyes to keep himself on track. He wants to fuck Zayn so bad, and maybe he’ll get to, but not yet, and he can’t get carried away.

“Lesson five,” he says, hoping his voice doesn’t shake. He reaches between Zayn’s legs, palming Zayn through the shorts again, and Zayn gasps and arches for him, hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders. Zayn’s cunt is radiant with heat, a spot on his boxers gone soaked-slick. Liam bears down on that throbbing heat with his palm, then rubs the heel of his hand against it, slow careful circles at the point of Zayn’s pubic bone, and Zayn edges out an anguished little noise through his teeth.

“Some girls,” Liam says conversationally, “like getting off through something, like their panties, you know. When they’re really -- really sensitive,” and he pushes his fingers into the wet cleft, dragging the cloth back and forth over Zayn’s clit, and the soft, shocked cry Zayn makes is so delicious that Liam’s got to taste him, like, now.

He hasn’t had Zayn’s breasts in his mouth either, which is unacceptable. He leans down to catch Zayn's mouth, then kisses Zayn’s throat and the dip of his tattooed collarbone -- still pulsing his hand in a slow, measured rhythm against Zayn’s pussy -- and then trails his mouth slowly down to the soft rise of one breast, sucking at it, savoring the weight of it on his tongue, swirling the tip around Zayn’s peaked nipple, flicking it soft and fast until Zayn’s spine bows up and he says, “ _Ahh_ ,” and then, softly, “Liam,” and Liam’s name in that mouth is the best sound he’s ever heard. 

He looks up at Zayn, quirking an eyebrow, grinning uncontrollably.

“Do the other one,” Zayn says. His eyes are wild. 

“Okay,” Liam says agreeably, and does. In a few seconds Zayn’s squirming under his tongue, his breath coming harsh and uneven, and Liam thinks this is the perfect time.

He bends down, kisses Zayn again. “Lesson six is more of, like, a demo thing.”

“Oh,” Zayn says dizzily. “Okay.”

Liam touches Zayn's mouth carefully. Then he kisses down Zayn’s sternum, over his belly, down and down until he’s breathing over the spreading wet spot on Zayn’s boxers. He can smell the humid musk of Zayn’s arousal, strong and animal and perfect. 

Zayn jerks up suddenly against him, a hand tightening on his shoulder. “Shit,” he says, sounding genuinely panicked. “L--Liam.”

“I’m gonna go down on you, love,” Liam says. He traces the split of Zayn’s cunt with one finger through his boxers, so delicately that it makes Zayn gasp. “That all right? I mean, getting you off is sort of the whole point.”

“But,” Zayn says. It’s half-swallowed, but Liam hears the fear in it, and he props himself up on one elbow, reaching up automatically for Zayn’s hand and closing it tightly in his own.

“Just want to make you feel good,” Liam says, keeping himself as steady and calm as he can. “Promise, sweetheart. That’s literally all I want, like, on Earth.”

Zayn laughs, but it’s a little strained. “I’m not,” he says, and swallows, and starts again. “I like. I shaved my legs, but um, I was -- I was scared to do more, down there, and like, it’s --”

“What,” Liam says, confused, his brow creasing up, “like, you’re a bit hairy? That’s the problem?”

“I dunno,” Zayn says miserably. “I don’t know if it’s, um, normal, or -- what you’re used to, I guess -- ”

“Fuck,” Liam says. He crawls up Zayn’s body and kisses Zayn’s mouth again and again, tugs at his hair, strokes his breasts and his arms and every part of Zayn he can reach, gathers Zayn up and kisses him breathless.

“I told you,” he says at last. “Look at me, you donut. I’d want to kiss you even if you had a giraffe head, and I’d want to make you come til you can’t walk even if you had -- if you had --” He runs out of ideas. “Well, probably not if you had a giraffe twat,” he admits, and Zayn lets out that surprised bark of goofy laughter that Liam likes so much, his forearm falling over his face. Liam nuzzles at his chin until Zayn drops his arm to show his face again, looking fondly down at Liam. 

“I want to taste you so badly,” Liam tells him quietly. “Want to see you just like you are. Want to make you come. Please?” 

Zayn draws in his breath, then lets it out again slow. “Okay,” he says. “But like. I’m nervous, I guess. I’m -- what if it takes a really long time, and -- won’t you get bored?”

It’s like being talked to in a foreign language. Liam has to stare at him for a few seconds before he gets it. “Bored of eating you out?” he says finally, just to be sure he’s got this right.

“Yeah,” Zayn says. His eyes are on the ceiling.

“Oh my God, babe,” Liam says. He grabs Zayn’s wrist and pushes his hand down between their bodies until Zayn’s touch is warm against his erection. Zayn’s eyes widen, fingers tightening, and Liam has to bite down on his tongue to keep from humping into Zayn's hand. 

“Feel that?” he asks instead, softly. 

“Yeah,” Zayn says. He rubs Liam a little, tentatively. 

“What is it?”

Zayn gives him a look under his hair that’s so skeptical, so fondly annoyed, so _Zayn,_ that it makes Liam want to laugh aloud. “Uh, it’s a boner.”

“It’s my dick,” Liam says sternly. “You should say that instead.”

“Fine,” Zayn says. The grin is coming back, genuine and uncontrollable. “It’s your big, hard dick, Liam. How’s that, more what you were going for?”

“Cheeky,” Liam says reproachfully. He takes Zayn’s ear in his mouth, breathes warm and wet on it, tugs at the lobe with his teeth until Zayn gasps and strains up into him. “Who’s that dick hard for?” he asks.

“Um,” Zayn says, but he’s shivering. “Me?”

“Fucking yeah, you,” Liam says, and this time he can’t help his own laugh, even though it comes out a little unsteady. He nuzzles behind Zayn’s ear, into that heady floral smell. “Yeah, Zayn, for you. I’m so hard for you I can barely talk, so I need you to believe me when I’m telling you, I just want this. Like, forever. If I could go down on you for a week I’d do that. So will you just let me?”

“God dammit,” Zayn says. His teeth sink into his soft lower lip.

“Say yes,” Liam pushes.

“Yes,” Zayn says, and takes a deep ragged breath. “Yeah, yes. Do your worst or whatever.”

“Good,” Liam whispers back. He brings their clasped hands up to his mouth, kisses Zayn’s thumb. “And I want you to do something for me, will you? Just -- focus on how it feels. And when something’s good, you squeeze my hand, okay?”

“Okay,” Zayn says. He’s still got his lip twisted up in his teeth, his brow troubled. Liam's going to wash his face clear of that, clear of everything but pleasure.

“Okay,” Liam agrees, and he moves back down, nipping at the waistband of Zayn’s boxers, dragging them down a little way like that to reveal the soft, thick patch of dark hair. He kisses Zayn there, chastely, curls springing under his lips, then tugs the shorts all the way off with his free hand. They get a little tangled with something on Zayn’s smooth calf, and he realizes Zayn’s still wearing those dumb socks. Liam considers pulling them off too, but then he doesn’t. It’s kind of hot, and Zayn’s bubbling with laughter, kicking free of the underwear, and Zayn's laugh is one of Liam's favorite things. 

“All right, enough shenanigans,” Liam says, severe, "stop laughing at once, please," and he scoops Zayn’s leg up, resting it over his shoulder so he can see. Zayn’s spread now and so beautiful, the wings of his cunt flushed red and fading to a hot, lovely pink, vibrant as a candy heart. Liam exhales and it flutters under the touch of his breath, opening and closing. Zayn jerks a little, instinctively, his hand tightening on Liam’s, his laugh climbing to a gasp. “I mean it. This is very serious." 

“Yeah, good, got it,” Zayn says. “Business time.” He sounds a little giddy. 

“Important business,” Liam agrees, and then he finally dips his head to kiss the arch of bone at the cradle of Zayn’s pelvis, flicking his tongue into the little hollow there. He breathes in the thick, sweet savor, lips a little parted. His head’s spinning just from the smell, from the rich fever that Zayn’s body exudes. He nuzzles deeper into the coarse curls. He loves doing this so much, and now it’s Zayn. It’s really Zayn. He kisses the inside of Zayn’s thighs, rubs his cheek over Zayn’s bare wet pussy, snuffling at him like a dog.

“Okay so far?” he says lightly, like it’s a completely normal conversation, like he’s checking if Zayn’s got his seatbelt on before falling asleep in the van.

“Fuck,” Zayn says, tight and desperate. “Do something already. Please, babes, it--”

Liam closes a slow, sweet kiss on Zayn’s cunt then, finally, and Zayn cries out, shuddering under him. Liam presses his tongue flat over him, licks him in long careful strokes with his tongue flattened broad and soft. He finds the hard little nub of Zayn’s clit and nuzzles at it, nosing in circles, flicking playfully over the hood, and Zayn’s hand vises so hard on his own that he can almost feel the bones shifting.

“Like that?” he asks, his voice thick and wet and lewd sounding even in his own ears.

“Nhh,” Zayn says. “Y-yeah.” 

Liam smiles against Zayn’s cunt and stiffens his tongue, fluttering it against Zayn’s clit and then pulsing slow and forceful until Zayn’s twisting, making these unbelievable sounds, girl sounds, low and desperate and sweet. His fingers are twined so tightly into Liam’s that the knuckles are gone white. Liam rocks his hips into the mattress for a second, needing just a push of friction. 

“Need to put my fingers in you, sweetheart," he murmurs into Zayn’s thigh. “All right?”

Zayn doesn’t answer, but Liam feels him shaking, and the grip on his hand squeezes just enough to say _yes._ Liam levers himself up on one elbow. He drags his lips over Zayn’s clit and then sucks at it so Zayn cries out, twitching reflexively. Then he’s circling Zayn’s entrance with one finger, tracing slowly, pushing over him but not slipping inside yet, not until the frantic breathy noises Zayn’s making turn into “please, Liam, please --”

“Please what?” He strokes down the wet silk of Zayn’s pussy, the flesh raw and supple and twitching with desire. 

“Fuck,” Zayn says, “oh sh... _it_ , put your fingers in me, please --” 

Liam sucks another hard kiss over Zayn’s clit. Then he’s sliding two fingers so easily into him, into that hot slick velvet, so tight it clings to every curve of his knuckles. Zayn wails, hips twisting sideways. Liam can’t not take a second to look at him, working Zayn’s clit with his thumb, sinking his fingers deeper and out again, in and out, steady and slow. Zayn’s head is turned sideways, a pulse ticking visibly in his jaw, his chest heaving shallowly. His hair, wild with sweat, sticks to his face and throat. His mouth is open: his eyes are closed.

“Tell me,” Liam says, and sucks at him again, hoping Zayn can understand that it’s a plea, “Can you tell me, love?”

“Feels s -- so fucking good,” Zayn says unsteadily. “I’m -- feels like -- everything’s just -- so full, um, full and hot, like I’m _glowing,_ Li, every time you -- _anh!_ \-- it’s like this, _pressure_ , and I’m, I need,” and he’s pushing hard onto Liam’s hand, breath coming in little harsh sobs, but he can’t get the leverage.

Liam hears himself actually growl. He lets go of Zayn’s hand long enough to flip them over, to roll Zayn up onto his knees so Zayn’s cunt -- dripping with spit and juice, humid and sweet as fruit -- is right over his face.

“Want you to ride my mouth til you come, babe,” Liam says, and then tugs Zayn forward at the hips, sets Zayn's cunt firmly over his tongue and licks up into him again. Zayn doesn’t need any more than that: he settles on his knees, straddling Liam’s face, and rocks his hips desperately down onto Liam’s mouth, grinding against his chin, rubbing messy and frantic. Liam stiffens his tongue and sinks his fingers into Zayn’s ass, kneading it, spreading it, smacking it a little, and Zayn’s rocking is getting faster and faster, erratic. Liam can’t see much but he can see the vulnerable underside of Zayn’s jaw, his head thrown back, his pretty tits bouncing. He’s saying Liam’s name, over and over, faster and faster, half-sobbing, until his hips tremble and stutter and he arches back, lets out a broken, ecstatic sound that goes straight to Liam’s dick. A long, full body shiver runs all the way down his spine, his thighs quaking around Liam’s head, cunt twitching on Liam’s tongue. There's a new hot flood in Liam’s mouth, that animal taste of flesh and salt and honey.

Zayn’s hips are still moving jerkily over Liam’s face. Liam licks at him soothingly, stroking his back, his ass, his thighs, until Zayn lets out a breath that’s more of a groan and goes boneless, sliding down until he’s straddling Liam’s chest, leaving a trail of heady musk behind. He collapses into Liam’s arms, panting into Liam’s throat. Liam has to touch him everywhere, get his hands on all that sweat-slick skin, all those lovely muscles gone warm and loose. He closes his eyes, wraps Zayn up tight in his arms, lets Zayn sigh sweet things into his skin, press wobbly kisses all over his face and throat.

“Fuck me,” Zayn’s saying, his voice weak and hoarse. “What the fuck was that? Is that what coming is? That’s like, that’s not something I ever -- I didn’t know that was even -- fuck. Liam.”

“All right for you, then?” Liam inquires solicitously. “Services rendered? Education received?”

“Oh my God, shut _up_ ,” Zayn says, smacking Liam's chest. He leans down and kisses Liam full on the mouth, a hot languid kiss as tender as a bruise, with a laugh beneath it.

“That’s me, isn’t it,” Zayn says, pulling back, nose wrinkled up a little. "On -- your mouth." 

“It definitely is,” Liam says. 

Zayn licks his lips, considering. “Tastes all right,” he says at last, sounding cautiously pleased.

“You taste better than all right,” Liam says, almost too appalled at the understatement to appreciate the way Zayn’s mouth is wet now with his own come. He spanks Zayn’s hip lightly. “Bite your tongue, how dare you. It’s heaven in there.”

“ _You_ are,” Zayn says nonsensically, and then he leans back in to kiss Liam again, and for a while they don’t say anything. The only noise is the rain outside the window, the wet catch and break of their mouths. Liam’s been rock-hard this whole time and this is just getting him harder, and it aches but somehow he’s in no hurry to break the pain, almost hopes Zayn won’t even notice. 

But “Don’t think I’ve forgotten, by the way,” Zayn says, and then his hand is rubbing under Liam's shirt and down his abs, down the trail of hair to Liam’s dick. Zayn’s grip is firm and knowing, and Liam bucks up into the touch, catching his lip between his teeth. “God, I can’t believe you’ve still got all your clothes on. But this is for me, you said it was, you _promised_ \--”

And then there’s a flurry of wild pounding on the door, three familiar voices raised in various degrees of outrage.

“We can hear _all of that_ ,” Niall says, sounding cranky. “I was asleep. What’s wrong with you?”

“You filthy animals!” Louis howls. “You should be ashamed!”

“Fuck off, pervs,” Zayn yells back. 

“Mazel tov!” Harry calls. “Stay in there all day. Get room service. I’m taking everyone else on a field trip to the pool.”

“I’m never going to forgive you for doing this without consulting me or letting me watch, so we’re not friends anymore,” Louis yells, but his voice is trailing away even as he says it

“I wanna go to the pool,” Zayn says, sounding absurdly disappointed.

“Or, here’s another thought,” Liam says, and wraps his hand around Zayn’s where it’s still moving on his cock. “Forget the pool and let's find out how many times I can make you come on my dick in the shower. What about that instead.”

A little silence. “I could consider that,” Zayn says. 

“What, you've got better plans?”

“I actually was thinking I’d spend today staring at my junk in a hand mirror,” Zayn says slyly, and Liam blushes from forehead to navel, has to shove a pillow over his head and groan into it. Zayn tugs it off, and there’s a brief tussle, before Liam lets Zayn win and falls back, sighing. He gathers Zayn up again, tracing the silken bumps of Zayn's spine with his fingertips.

“I’m so stupid,” he says to the ceiling. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t know what to do. I’ve been thinking about this for like, months.”

“Months?” Zayn echoes. “Oh my God, not since --”

“Veronica,” Liam confirms glumly. “There were a lot of weird dreams.” 

“I want to hear about them sometime,” Zayn says. 

“Well, you never will, because they're awful. Anyway, so I really was just trying to be helpful. Even though it turns out I was the opposite.”

He strokes Zayn's smooth back for a long, peaceful moment. The rain patters hushed on the balcony outside.

Out of the silence, he says hesitantly, "Hey, can I ask you something?"

"Mm." Zayn raises his head, scrapes his teeth lightly over Liam's rough jaw. "Anything, babes."

"Why _didn't_ you ask Harry?"

Zayn stills, and Liam instantly regrets it, but before he can start stammering apologies, Zayn says, "I mean, I -- I love Harry."

"Right," Liam says, feeling slightly nauseated.

"Let me finish, twat," Zayn says, pinching Liam's cheek, smiling at him. "Not like that. I love Harry, but he's -- he's not -- I don't know. Um." His beautiful girl's face is scrunched up in thought, but even on that strange lovely countenance it's an expression Liam knows intimately. Zayn's way of knitting his brows and twisting his mouth, Zayn measuring his words. "Harry and I -- we can't take things seriously, stuff like this. Which is fine. I love him, he's my brother. But I'm -- this is serious for me, and I knew you would, like. Be serious about it."

Liam is definitely serious about it. He kisses Zayn's knuckles, his wrist.

"And anyway," Zayn adds, an afterthought, "I wanted you."

"Oh," Liam says. He cups the tender curve of Zayn's jaw and pulls their foreheads gently together. "Okay."

“Did you know you’re my best friend?” Zayn says abruptly. He blushes, drops his head to Liam’s chest and adds, “just, like, thank you, and I love you so much,” and even though they say it all the time, Liam’s whole body goes light and dizzy just hearing it. “And if you don’t ever want to, like, do this again, or -- we don’t have to do it, or even talk about it, just -- it was a big favor to me, I get that, so you shouldn’t feel like --”

“Hold up, now who's being stupid,” Liam says. He tilts Zayn’s chin up, holds it there so they can look at each other. “Did you miss the part where this has literally been my number one fantasy for months? I’m down for whatever, for as long as you are. And whatever you decide, I love you forever. That part's non-negotiable.”

“Oh,” Zayn says, glowing. 

“My lovely girl,” Liam says softly, and cranes up to kiss Zayn's brow. Zayn smiles that unbelievable smile at him, tongue tucked teasingly behind his teeth.

“Only got six lessons, after all,” Zayn says contemplatively.

“Hardly enough to count,” Liam agrees, wrapping a sleek strand of Zayn’s hair around his fingers. “So lesson seven -- or are we on eight? -- anyway, whichever number it is, the next lesson is some girls can have multiples. I feel like you’re one of them. I intend to make sure that you’re one of them.”

“If I change back before we get to that one, I’m gonna be well stroppy about it,” Zayn says, nuzzling Liam’s jaw. 

“Your changing back does not at all affect the lesson plan,” Liam counters. “Um, I mean, unless you want it to. Giraffe head, remember? I’m on a mission here.”

“You’re crazy,” Zayn says, but his smile is still huge. “Shower now?” and leans forward to kiss Liam’s nose. Something about it is so cute that Liam can't not give into the caveman urge: and he surges up and slings Zayn over his shoulder. Zayn squawks with delighted outrage, feet kicking. 

“Some girls like this kind of thing,” Liam calls over his shoulder, patting Zayn's naked ass and then leaving his hand there, because it's nice. Zayn makes a rude noise and slaps at Liam with his free hand.

"Not me," he says, voice choked and weird because he's hanging upside-down, and also because he's laughing. "I'm a romantic, dick."

"Very romantic," Liam says, hoisting Zayn into a more secure hold. "Using me for sex without even getting my hoodie off."

"Whose fault is that?" Zayn points out. "Next time I want the full thing. The candles, and the mood music, and gazing tenderly at my bits in a mirror, everything you had in your bag of tricks yesterday. And your kit definitely comes off." 

That seems pretty reasonable. "What music do you want?" 

"Dunno," Zayn says, looping an arm around Liam's ribs. He nuzzles his upside-down face into Liam's side, and Liam can hear the smile in his voice when he says, "I'll make you a playlist." 

"Perfect," Liam says, meaning it maybe more than he's ever meant anything, and drags his girl off to try out the showerheads.


End file.
